(I was in the ladies room during a shift, wearing a skirt. This is key.)

Woman, in stall next to mine: “You’re not wearing any pants!”

(I ignore her, thinking she’s on the phone.)

Woman: *starts banging on the wall between us* “You’re not wearing any pants!”

Me: “…I’m…sorry?”

Woman: “You! You’re not wearing any pants!” *bangs some more*

Me: “And you know this how?”

Woman: “I can see your legs! They’re bare! You’re not wearing any pants!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m wearing a *skirt*.”

(The woman stops banging on the wall, and is completely silent. I never got to know what she thought of a woman wearing a skirt.)

(I was helping a regular customer who had wandered in–as he did daily–from the nursing home across the street.)

Old Man: “You’re working again?”

Me: “Yes, every day.”

Old Man: “You know what? Every time I see you, there’s a big smile on your face.”

Me: “What can I say, I love my job.”

Old Man: “Yes, you have a wonderful smile. You’ll make a good looking corpse.”

Me: “…”

(He got a wide berth after that.)

(I work in a motor factor (in America, an auto parts/accessories shop) which is on the same estate as a car workshop. Outside there is a huge sign for the workshop stating the things that they do e.g. brakes, exhausts, MOT testing etc.)

Customer: “Hi, I’d like to book my car in for a five point service.”

(Now, we do various easy-peasy checks e.g. oil, water, and we fit batteries, bulbs, radios etc, so often customers are often confused as to exactly what we do and do not do.)

Me: “You mean the five point check? Just pull your car into the bay outside and I’ll be out in a minute.”

Customer: “No, NO, I meant the service you have advertised outside! New brakes, oil change!”

Me: “I think you’re confusing us with the garage next door. We’re just a motor factor.”

Customer: “But you’ve got a sign outside!”

Me: “Let’s have a look then…”

(We look and the sign is for the garage next door, not our motor factor. I point out that our building has a completely different name outside it.)

Customer: “That’s false advertising! Why can’t you do it?! I demand that I get a free service for the inconvenience you have caused me!”

Me: “Sorry mate, we’re just a motor factor. I’d happily service my own car, but I’m not a mechanic, I’m a history student. If you’d like the five-point service, try the building with the same name as on the sign.”

Customer: “This is ridiculous! I want YOU–” *stabs me in the chest with his finger* “–to service my car right now!”

Me: “Okay, if you just follow me, and talk to that gentleman there–” *points at garage owner* “–I can service your car straight away.”

Customer: *walks off swearing*

(Working in tech support, I talk to some pretty dumb people every day. This was a particular highlight of the week.)

Me: “Go ahead and check the icons in the bottom right hand corner of your screen for me.”

Customer: “I have no bottom right.”

Me: “Ma’am, everything has a bottom right.”

(Two women walk up with their little babies, still young enough to be carried around wrapped in blankets.)

Lady 1: “How much is face painting for the kids?”

Me: “Three dollars, ma’am.”

Lady #1: “Could you charge us less ‘cuz our kids are small?”

Me: *looking for her kids, thinking she can’t possibly be referring to the babies* “How small are they?”

Lady #1: “They’re babies!”

Me: *eyes popping out* “Excuse me?”

Lady #2: “We’re HOLDIN’ ‘EM! They’re babies!”

Me: “Um, ma’am, I don’t think I can paint on your infants.”

Lady# 2: “Well why NOT?”

Me: “Because this is heavy professional paint. It says right on the label, ‘Not for use for children under three years.’ It’ll irritate their skin.”

Lady #1: “So you won’t paint our babies?”

Me: “No, ma’am. I can’t do that. It’s not safe.”

Lady #1: “There ain’t no sign that says you won’t!”

Me: “I should think that kinda goes without saying…”

Lady #1: “So this means we waited in that line for NOTHING?”

Lady #2: “Y’all should put up a sign or something that says you won’t face paint on babies, ‘cuz I thought that was y’alls job.”

Me: “I’m sorry ma’am. I’ve been doing this for years and nobody’s ever tried to have an infant painted before so I never thought I’d have to mention it. It’s dangerous.”

Lady #1: “Well that just ain’t fair! Damn, if I knew you wouldn’t do it, I wouldn’t've waited in that line!”

Lady #2: “Y’all need to put up a sign or something! I thought this was for the KIDS–aren’t babies kids?”

Me: “I’ve already explained–it’s dangerous. I won’t do it, and neither will any of my coworkers.”

Lady #2: *as they’re both walking away* “That just ain’t fair. They should have a sign.”

Me: “Have a nice afternoon, ladies!”

(I found out later that, after I left, the women came back twice to different painters trying to get someone to face-paint on their infants. Both times, they were told the same thing.)

(For three years, my job was to deal with angry parents. I was very good at it. Most of the time.)

Parent: *angrily* “I need to speak to someone about my daughter’s roommates!”

Me: “Okay, ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Parent: “Her roommates are awful to her! ”

Me: “Okay. Can you detail the problems for me? The more specific you can be, the better we can help your daughter and her roommates settle their problems.”

Parent: “They curse, and they play loud music, and they’re, well, they’re just not *like* us.”

Me: “In what way are they not *like* you, ma’am?”

Parent: “Well, they’re…farm people.”

(Twenty seconds of absolute silence as I am, for once, thrown off my game. I’ve heard racial B.S. and religious B.S., but never *farm* B.S.)

Parent: “Not that there’s anything wrong with farm people. It’s just that we’re not farm people.”

(I’m still in shock. She keeps going.)

Parent: I mean, farms are useful, but we’re from the city. My daughter grew up going to the theater and to museums.”

Me: “Ma’am, I can assure you, as a kid from a farm myself, I’ve been to the theater and to museums. What we probably have here is a personality clash.”

(There’s about a 10 second pause that just drips with uncomfortable.)

Parent: “Perhaps I should speak to someone else.”

Caller: “Hi, I lost my cellphone this weekend. I was wondering if you’d found it?”

Me: “Well, maybe. What does it look like?”

Caller: “It’s a black Nokia; orange on the sides.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but your phone is not here.”

Caller: “Oh. Well…can I come by and just, like, take another one?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Caller: “Well, you know, since I’ve lost my phone and all, and it’s not like the phones you have is anyone’s property…”

Me: “Ehm…well..how would you feel if I gave your phone away to someone else?”

Caller: *silence* “Well that would be kinda rude.”

Me: “Yes.”

Caller: *more silence* *click*

(I worked for a large Internet service provider; customers are set up with an email address of their choice, over the phone. Someone obviously misheard her.)

Me: “Thank you for calling high speed internet technical support. How can I help you?”

Customer: “I can’t get my email.”

Me: “I should be able to help with that … let me pull up your information and I will see what I can do for you.”

Customer: “My email address is SweetyPetty@***.***.”

(I pull up the customer’s info.)

Me: “I see here that your email address is … SweatyTitties@***.***.”

Customer: “WHAT! That’s not my email address! I demand it be changed now!”

Me: *having entirely too much fun with policy* “Oh I can do that for you, ma’am, but if I do the email address SweatyTitties will be unavailable for 30 days. Are you sure you don’t want SweatyTitties?”

Customer: “No, I don’t want SweatyTitties!”

Me: “Okay, so I will delete SweatyTitties off your account and replace it with SweetyPetty.”

(At this point, the other tech support people around me are laughing.)

Customer: “YES, YES please get rid of SweatyTitties!”

(Santa was visiting our store, and every kid got a small bag of candy. Then this happened…)

Santa: “Here you go, little boy!”

Kid: “Thank you, Santa!”

Mom: “Aren’t you forgetting anything?”

Kid: “What, mommy?”

Mom: “Ask Santa for another bag for your brother like I told you.” *looks at Santa* “He’s sick at home and couldn’t come.”

Santa: “No problem!” *reaches for another bag*

Kid: “But mommy, I don’t have a brother!”

Mom: “…”

Santa: *puts bag back*

(Everyone in line bursts out laughing.)

(I’m selling tickets to a show of the High School Musical Tour.)

Customer: “I already have tickets; I just need meet and greet passes for my two girls.”

Me: “I’m sorry, you have to get those from the PR people in the show.”

Customer: “I only need two, though.”

Me: “I understand, but we do not physically have any meet and greet passes here. You can only get them from the show.”

Customer: *snooty* “I’m from Summerlin, though.”

(Summerlin is an upscale, high class part of Las Vegas.)

Me: “Let me talk to my manager.”

(I walk to the back, count to ten and come back out.)

Me: “My manager said if you go into the show and talk to the PR people, they should have some for you.”

Customer: “Thank you!”